


All Things Considered

by Ivy_in_the_Garden



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Ableist Language, Abusive Parents, Alexis is still a terrible person, Alternative Ending AU, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual!Jezabel, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheque Fraud, Godchild Secret Santa 2018, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Romance, Victim Blaming, all aboard the suffering train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-21 18:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17048477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_in_the_Garden/pseuds/Ivy_in_the_Garden
Summary: An alternative ending. Plagued by nightmares, Cassian tries to rescue Jezabel once again from the grasp of the Cardmaster.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syri/gifts).



Despite his outwardly gruff demeanor, he's trembling under the worn greatcoat that hides his identity  from the earl who fell down from the upper world. If the boy was clever, he'd notice the unsteady circles of torchlight that betrays Cassian's own fears; perhaps he does, and perhaps he does not. Cassian cannot tell, nor does it particularly concern him. His task is to be the psychopomp, bringing his charge to the underworld. 

Cassian's almost certain that none of them will be leaving this place. It's as dark as an ancient temple, and from the crude stone block, it feels as though that impression was the Cardmaster's intention—a temple to himself, no doubt. The kid is there, frozen in a stand-off between the Cardmaster and the Tower. Frankly, Cassian's shocked it hasn't happened earlier. But what worries him is the tension in Jezabel's body; he was wrong. Jezabel is about to act—probably for the worse. And he can't see the kid go to his death again. 

Forgetting the earl, Cassian leaps into action, seizing the kid's wrist. Jezabel turns around, puzzled by the sudden force keeping him—and Cassian remembers that Jezabel does not want to be rescued only when that glimmer of steel comes out and rips his throat open. The kid stares down at him for a moment, an unfathomably hard look in his eyes and satisfaction twisting his lips as the light spills through his form, suspending him like a ghost, before he turns his attention to the Tower, and Cassian knows what will happen before it does. 

And Cassian's torn vocal cords do not allow for a strangled plea. 

Through the fading light and his weakness, he scrabbles at the kid's ankles to stop him, to trip him, anything to give him a moment to come to his senses and realize that misplaced loyalty could never be a match for the other madman with a loaded revolver. God, if only—if only—

But there is only a single bullet that follows him down into the darkness. 

* * *

He awakens on the dirty, barely covered mattress, stuffed with bits of discards and fantasies, reeking of the cheap, harsh booze drunk to forget the humiliation of living in the catacombs among the literal refuse, waiting for the nerve to act. He groans, rubbing the dull rage in his head. 

It's always been like this.

Again, the boy-earl does his best impression of Alice, and again, Cassian leads him for a price that has not been yet decided, because Cassian does not know yet what it must be: money? Safety? Passage to anywhere but here? Somehow he does not think Cain would be so generous if he knew exactly whom he was helping, but then again, let that be a lesson for him not to be so free with his vows. 

Cassian's afraid it might be too late, terrified it might just be the right time. He's never been anyone's hero, and even on his way there, he's not sure he wants to start now. Truly the image alone must be ludicrous: a knight in rags and a stolen face. Hell, he doesn't even feel like himself, like the person called Cassian anymore: it's someone else's arms he moves, whose face stares back in the mirror fragments. 

He emerges from the haphazardly built stone staircase, the staircase he'd only stared at, knowing that once he climbed it, he could never go back. None of them could. 

And he stumbles upon the stand-off again: the Tower with a revolver pointed at the Cardmaster, and Jezabel at the sides. The kid is just close enough for for Cassian to grab him, and he does, dropping the torch and all pretenses. Jezabel struggles, futilely this time, in Cassian's grasp, a flush working across his thin face with the effort. It's like trying to contain a hissing feral kitten; Cassian's quite certain that Jezabel would have spit in his face too if his father hadn't been present.

"It's me," Cassian keeps repeating in a low, soft tone, jerking his head to try to dislodge the scrap of scars. "Don't you recognize me?"

Fury hardens Jezabel's face. "Of course not! Let go!" 

"It's me, Cassian," he pleads, afraid that he may have gotten himself in far deeper than he had ever wanted. Why didn't he just kill the earl as he slept? Pawn his belongings and make a clean getaway? It would have been so easy, and then he wouldn't be here, contemplating just how much force to use.

Jezabel laughs in his face, sharp and hollow. "You must think me a fool." 

It is at this precise moment that all of Cassian's patience evaporates. "Goddammit Doctor, you are utterly impossible. Good to know you haven't changed."

Jezabel pales at this familiarity, his mouth opening in surprise. "What?" he manages. 

Cassian swallows back another string of curses. "Doctor, it's me, Cassian, and I'd like you to remember that instead of acting like a cat that's met water."

Realization gives way to horror. "You shouldn't have come back," Jezabel says in a low tone, glancing back at the Cardmaster. 

From their stand-off, the Cardmaster and the Tower surveys them. Confusion, suspicion, then a malicious amusement works its way through the Cardmaster's face, but the Tower remains unmoved. 

"Well, that's touching," he chuckles, vaguely amused, and pulls the trigger.

 And in the moment the Cardmaster collapses in a spitting arch of blood and brains, Cassian wishes he had been quick enough to cover the kid's eyes. Jezabel's head jerks towards the crackle of the revolver, and a shock goes through his body as the bullet finds its home. The black ritual robe settles down in a torn silence, and Cassian is more afraid of Jezabel now than the Tower or any of the Cardmaster's faithless servants.

 (He's just Alexis now, just another of Delilah's corpses.) 

The ringing in Cassian's ears does not subside, he's a blank, he's never planned this far, and a strangled string of words swim through his consciousness: _let go of me, I can save him, let go, it's not too late, there's not enough time, let go, let go, damn you let go, let me go, let me go._ It's not until later, until the Tower has set his sights on the two of them, grinning irrepressibly with his head cocked, that he realizes that they are Jezabel's pleas.  Fear shoots through him as he realizes that the Tower is coldly evaluating them as a potential threat; the carefully nonchalant position of the gun at his side, partially lowered but with his finger on the trigger, tells Cassian that the Tower has at least one more bullet in there. _Don't say anything, kid,_ Cassian thinks. _Christ._   

 The Tower strides over to the draining corpse, its limbs splayed across the ground, and peers down at his handiwork, before offloading another bullet into its skull. "He's all yours now," the Tower calls out. "I do keep my promises, little Jezabel."

The boy, Cain, keeps watching the corpse as well, frozen in a state of unreality, his own revolver drawn in the chaos but unused. Surely he must know how easily one can die? 

 "Wasn't this your dream?" the Tower mocks, turning to Cain. "To have your _wicked, cruel father_ killed? Both of you have what you want." A thoughtful look crosses his face, and he promptly bends down, flipping open a switchblade, throwing the corpse's head back to expose its throat. "I did promise you his head, didn't I, Jezabel? Those were my exact words, and you do so prize your wording."

Jezabel blanches. "Don't," he manages. Cassian feels him struggle against his grip, and fearing the worst, Cassian does not let him go. _This isn't the time, kid._  

(For some reason, perhaps habit, perhaps terror, Cassian finds himself silent.) 

The Tower tilts his head in mock-interest. "Ah, you'd prefer to do it yourself?" He chuckles. "Who am I to disagree with our resident madman?" He stands up and pockets the blade. "Now, as Cardmaster, I have some changes to make around here," the Tower continues. "Little Jezabel, you and your monstrosity are expelled from Delilah. There's enough treachery around without you. The next time I see you, I will personally kill you. Take your parting gift—" here, he kicks the corpse— "and get out of my sight. Linger, and I promise you will live _just long enough to regret it_. Do I make myself clear?"

 Jezabel says nothing, his chest heaving and his breath staggered. 

"Come now, you're insane, not mute." 

Jezabel closes his eyes and gives a small curt nod. 

The Tower responds with exaggerated, maliciously wide-eyed nods. "Good boy. Now _get out_." With a final, lingering appraisal of Jezabel and then Cain, the Tower turns on his heel and leaves, a grin announcing his satisfaction. 

And a bit of plaster trickles down from the ceiling in his wake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for the mood to be so whiplashy but I guess that's true to canon? Idk, I just think Evil!Riff should have just shot Alexis right there in canon instead of being vaguely amused at Jezabel's sacrifice. There was at least another bullet in there. Anyway...
> 
> This fanfic is centered around Jezabel and Cassian, while Cain does show up, he isn't a big part. It's Jezabel and Cassian from here on out.


	2. Chapter 2

Voices spill through the empty walls of Delilah's folly: the Tower's, Ida's, screams of triumph and hatred. It hardly matters, because Cassian knows that time is running out for both of them. Cain watches them warily, still confused by Cassian's actions, unsure of his hunch. Then his head turns to the cacophony nearby, and he returns to the fray. His footsteps dim, until there is only Jezabel's harsh, uneven breathing left in the room. Still holding onto Jezabel, Cassian tries not to meet his gaze, afraid of what he might find there: despair, or rage... or even hatred. 

It's Jezabel who finally breaks the silence. "Let me go," he says in a hoarse, strained voice, and as if to illustrate his demand, he tries to wrench his wrists free.

"You have to promise me something, Doctor," Cassian replies, searching his face.

Jezabel shakes his head slightly. "I will do no such thing, Cassian."

 "Yes, you will. If you want me to let you go, you have to promise you won't do anything hasty."

"When have I ever done anything hasty in my life?"

"Listen," Cassian continues. "You know as well as I that this place is rigged. This will be a tomb shortly. I need you to grab a coat—and whatever cheques your father was using to finance this place—and we can catch the next train out of here. To wherever you want. Anywhere."

He softens at the thought of some place far away, somewhere the blood couldn't touch them anymore, and Jezabel seizes his chance, pulling away from his grasp. Rubbing his wrists, he meets Cassian's gaze. 

"I'm not going with you," he says, raising his head in defiance.  "I'm staying here. With Father."

"Goddamnit." Cassian throws his hands up in frustration as the fantasy that sustained him for months down in the sewers slips away. "Goddamnit, why must you be like this? You're free! You're finally free." 

"Am I?" Jezabel asks coldly. "It's not that simple. He owns every part of my being. I could never be apart from him. I-I would simply disappear." A strange, quivering reverence comes over him. "Everything that is me belongs to him alone."

"You belong to yourself," Cassian counters.

Jezabel gives him a strange look. "Why would you say that? Surely you of all people—" He stops himself. "It doesn't matter. I have a duty to him. I must either avenge his death, or die with him. That's all that's left."

Something crackles in the distance: another gunshot followed by screams. Part of the nearby room crumbles, pushing dust and pebbles past the aching doorway. 

"You have to come with me." Fear and desperation creep into Cassian's voice. He doesn't know how long they have before the whole building comes down. It might be minutes. "There isn't any time left. Please, Doctor. You can sort out vengeance later, but if you don't come now, there won't be a later. " 

 Jezabel pauses, his gaze returning to the corpse. 

He's already made up his mind. It's suicide through indifference. A choice with the illusion of indecision. 

Cassian shakes his head. "I can't let you die," he says, as he grabs Jezabel's wrist and tries to drag him to the staircase. Immobilizing Jezabel and actually moving him turn out to be two separate things: Jezabel meets Cassian's strength with his own stubbornness, refusing to budge.

"I'm staying with Father," Jezabel retorts, his voice shaking.

The ceiling heaves. Cracks thread above them, emptying debris into the room, and Jezabel coughs from the rising clouds of dust.

"Will you kill me too?" Cassian retorts in a moment of terror.

Hurt hesitation flashes across Jezabel's face, and in that moment, Cassian seizes his chance. He grabs Jezabel's hand, not stopping to consider the intimacy of it all, but as he runs towards the staircase, it collapses in front of them. And Cassian realizes that the situation is far more dire than he had thought. They may not have minutes left.

"Where's the other way out?"

Jezabel bites his lip, surveying the room. "Past the storage area." 

And they run through the emptied, twisting rooms, the layout twisting like the inside of an anthill. They run past the caved-in floors and the ceilings seeping dust and the bloody bodies. Cassian tries not to look at them: it's a mishmash of Delilah agents he knew only in passing. And then a partial skeleton, a pile of dust. A disheveled, black-haired boy, limp. 

_Goddamnit._

Still, he runs past them, dragging Jezabel a little more firmly behind him, unwilling, or perhaps too afraid to let go of his hand. There isn't time for anything but to run, to run and hope that part of the construction will hold long enough for them to escape. 

Finally reaching it, Cassian throws open an unfinished door to one of the construction staircases to the above ground. Daylight, the pallid English daylight greets them at the top of the stairs, and Cassian pulls Jezabel in front of him, so that there's no last-minute resignations to staying behind.  Jezabel shakily navigates the stairs, steadying himself with the walls, while hope surges through Cassian at the closeness of freedom.

A few more meters!

And just like that, with a sigh of dust and an ensuing rush of stone against stone, the staircase gives way above them. "You have to keep going," Cassian yells, but it's lost in the heaving of the stones and wooden supports. A wooden pillar crashes next to him, issuing chunks of stone, blocking the way back, and it all happens so much faster that Cassian had imagined it would.

Only one of them is getting out alive, Cassian realizes, and he gives Jezabel a push, anything to make the kid run faster.

Then the doorway collapses, plummeting them into choking darkness, and just like that, it's over. Terror seizes Cassian. He doesn't know how long they'll last in this strange pocket, but the walls answer that for him. They slide under his grasp, pushing towards him. In the final deluge of plaster and wood, he does the only thing he can think of and throws himself over the kid, the uneven steps cutting into his palms, the pain sharp and sudden. 

And then it's the darkness again, unending. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far more melodramatic that I had planned. XD OH WELL. Cassian gets the short end of the stick again, despite being one of my faves. Anyway, there's more pain ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

Voices—lights, the impossible, indifferent white of the sky—he gasps in the cold, fresh air—Jezabel's long, grey hair trailing over someone's arm—he's not moving—pain stings his flesh, a thousand hurts—someone frees him from the mysterious pressure on his legs—firm, decisive hands grab him, pull him forward—he groans in pain—there's blood seeping across Jezabel's face—

Then Cassian collapses back into the nothingness.

* * *

 He comes to in a strange, quiet room. Dull blue walls, starched white sheets, stiff limbs. A voice carries on in the background, soft yet authoritative. 

"And what happened next, Doctor Hathaway?"

Cassian strains himself to eavesdrop. 

"It seemed to be a meeting place for some sort of atavistic religion," Jezabel says in a low voice. "They had on bl-black robes and masks." Cassian hears the hitch in his voice, and hopes the police officer takes it as a sign of terror rather than sorrow. "There were a quite few. And Earl Hargreaves was there too, for whatever reason I cannot fathom. We decided that we had seen enough, but then the building started to fall down on us. Gregory found a staircase, and... you know the rest."

"I hope you'll stick to medical establishments from here on out," the police officer says, closing his notebook. "It's foolish to go poking around in strange places."

And having processed the gist of their cover story, Cassian ventures a peek at the scene: on the bed next to him, Jezabel lies upright, cushioned by a pillow at his back, and a rough wool blanket is tucked in at his waist. Gauze drapes the part of his face visible to Cassian, and his arms are crossed as he speaks to the police officer sitting near his hospital bed.  

"I know that now," Jezabel says, such a vision of humility with his slightly bowed head and lowered eyes that it seems almost a mockery.  

"Good." The officer starts to leave, but notices Cassian. "Ah, good, you're awake."

Cassian fakes a sheepish grin. "Don't know how I managed that one," he says weakly. 

"You're lucky," the officer replies, but all Cassian can focus on is the mask that slips away from Jezabel when he's unwatched: relief and hesitation show on his face. Jezabel turns the rest of his face towards him: half his face is bandaged  on one side. Most curiously of all, his hair is now shoulder-length, and surprisingly curlier now without the weight pulling it down.  

Cassian follows Jezabel's story as closely as he can manage: he's Doctor Hathaway's assistant, been that way for years now. Yes, they went into the building; yes, he knows it was foolish of him; no, he doesn't know anything about what was going on inside. Satisfied, the officer leaves, and Cassian breathes a sigh of relief. Jezabel, however, lapses into one of his moods, somehow far away, his feigned humility long gone. Instead, a stilled anger takes its place, and Cassian can guess why. 

"What happened to your—" Cassian gestures to his hair. 

Jezabel shrugs. "One of the nurses cut it off. Moral improvement, she called it. They've been trying to figure out all morning if I'm a madman."

"Are you?"

"Evidently not," Jezabel replies curtly. He stares at the wall, arms crossed, and Cassian waits a moment, wondering how to broach their situation. Oh Christ, it was _their_   situation now, wasn't it?

 "What do you want to do now?"

 "You shouldn't have come back. I _told you_ never to come back and now..." He clasps a hand to his forehead. "Now what am I to do?"

"Anything, go anywh—"

"He was _everything to me_ ," Jezabel whispers through clenched teeth. "I could have protected him, but you had to let your damned ideals get in the way." He swallows hard, and it takes Cassian a moment to realize that he's crying. "I wish you had never come back."

"Doctor..." Cassian begins, realizing that there won't be a cottage in the forest for them. 

"No." Jezabel turns away from him, lying on his side and facing the wall. "I don't want anything to do with you."

 And the silence falls between them like rain. Cassian tries to close his eyes, savoring the luxury of a bed, a real bed raised off the floor and everything, even as guilt weighs him down. Tomorrow, tomorrow, Jezabel will be reasonable, and they can sort this out. They will, they have to.  

When he wakes up again, the bed is empty. 

* * *

Cassian tears out of the hospital as quickly as possible, his bruises protesting and the dull sore in his rib-cage throbbing like a clock. Dr. Hathaway didn't leave a forwarding address, a note. Nothing. It is his turn to disappear into the crowds. Cassian curses himself. Fumbling out into the crowds, Cassian searches for that familiar grey-blond hair: he doesn't know where Jezabel might be; he could be on the docks, looking for a quick victim, or at the train stations, or floating in the Thames. Cassian closes his eyes against that possibility.

He follows down into the crowds, past the policemen, past the fearful family members trying to see if they knew someone lost in the chaos the Cardmaster orchestrated, past the maids out shopping and gossiping. He walks so far that time loosens, and ahead, a figure with shoulder-length grey-blond hair, more grey than blond now, wanders.

"Doctor!"

Against all hope, Cassian catches up with him, his body more ache than flesh now.

Jezabel turns around in shock, his dissociation fading. "Wha-what? What are you doing here?" He's swapped out the obvious bandaging of earlier with a smaller, more precise application. There're small cuts, more raised red marks than anything else, along the curve of his face, and still another more major wound to his shoulder.

"Christ, Doctor," Cassian starts. "Walking around like that is dangerous."

Jezabel looks as though he means to say something particularly sharp, but then shakes his head against it. "Why?" he asks instead, something akin to despair on the edge of his voice. "Why won't you just leave me to my fate?"

"I owe you a debt, Doctor," Cassian says. "And I mean to repay it."

Jezabel shakes his head again. "There's no debt. If I were a stronger man, if I-if I—"

"You didn't want to die back there." And as he says it, Cassian regrets it. 

Jezabel regards him with a strange look. "What are you offering? Love? Is that it? I'll be your little dove? Your sick little dove to nurse back to health?" Anger laces Jezabel's voice. "I am not something for you to rescue." He starts to storm off, but Cassian keeps up this time.

"No, I wanted you to know that someone out there cares for you. That you're not trapped in some cage. Not anymore" Cassian pauses. "Maybe in the beginning I wanted to rescue you, but I don't think you'd let me. I just... I just want you to wake up one morning and not have to carry all this pain. I want you to live for whatever brings you joy."

Jezabel stops, biting his lip, and glances back, a hurt, open look on his face.

"I just want you to know that you're not tainted or soiled or whatever the Cardmaster told you to keep you from leaving," Cassian continues. 

"What do you get out of it?" Jezabel asks abruptly.

"I told you, it's my debt."

Jezabel carries on, arms crossed, while Cassian follows. Again. It's their pattern. This goes on for a few minutes, and Cassian suspects that Jezabel is not really walking away from him, but from something else. Jezabel moves his head in a manner that suggests that he is about to start talking again, but what he intended is lost to the emergence of a fallen draft-horse, worn out from years of pulling the coal carts. She neighs against the cobblestones, as carts swerve around her.  

And the man near her raises his whip. 

Jezabel's hands curl into fists, and Cassian runs a little faster, if only to prevent a murder. He did not come this far to let Jezabel hang!

 "What do you think you're doing?" Jezabel snaps at the man, all vulnerability gone, and more than slightly terrifying Cassian now. "Can't you see she's down?"

The miner puts his hands on his hips, the short whip snaking through his fingers. "I don't need a bleeding-heart dandy to tell me how to treat my animals."

Jezabel gives Cassian a look of annoyance when he catches up to him, irritated at being thwarted, but Cassian shakes his head. That's precisely the attention they were trying to avoid. From the way the miner is looking at him, he's pretty sure he's just been taken for Jezabel's servant, again, despite having the body of _Lord Cassandra Gladstone in his prime._

"How much do you want for her?" Jezabel says, dipping a hand into his coat, and to Cassian's eternal relief and bewilderment, pulls out a chequebook instead. "Name your price."

 "It's just an old nag," the miner says suspiciously. "You'll not get a good price for her even at the glue factory."

"It's a horse you have no need of," Jezabel replies. "I'll take her off your hands now. For more than a reasonable sum." He pauses, filling out the cheque with a flourish. "Fifty pounds by the order of Earl Hargreaves."

The miner raises his eyebrows. "Are you daft?"

Casssian privately agrees, trying to keep a vaguely threatening face while wondering if aristocrats really didn't know how to bargain: to offer a butler's yearly salary, more money that Cassian had ever earned in his life, for a rundown horse!

"That's none of your concern," Jezabel replies smoothly, pocketing the pen and chequebook. "I'm offering you a better bargain than the glue factory will. You'll be lucky to get a few shillings for her." He brandishes the cheque, which Cassian recognizes as one of the Cardmaster's. _Oh Christ._  "I would take the deal before one of the policemen wonder what's going on here." _It will not look good for you_ goes unvoiced. 

The miner pauses, before taking the cheque, weighing the possibility of fraud. The fine cut of Jezabel's clothes seems to sway him.  "She's yours," he says incredulously, and with that, he hands the worn bridle reins over to Jezabel, who accepts them with somehow more haughtiness than usual.  

"Earl Hargreaves sends his thanks," Jezabel replies with a dismissive air. 

 "You're utterly mad," Cassian whispers back to him, as the man turns his back.

"I'm right." Jezabel pats the horse's neck. A flush rises in his cheeks from the entire affair, but he focuses on the horse, soothing it in a way that both softens Cassian and makes him slightly envious of this animal that has more of a hold on him than he ever will.  

"Christ, Doctor, you're really something, aren't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that the cheques do go through. Neil's got a lot on his mind, what with planning the funeral of his beloved nephew and all. My headcanon of Jezabel the expert cheque forger continues... More about Alexis's totally secret bank account later. Time for the comfort, I think. There's been a lot of pain so far. 
> 
> The scene with Jezabel and the horse has been floating around in my head for a while. It almost made it into On the East of Eden, but I couldn't really work it in.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes some coaxing from Jezabel, but the horse rightens herself, and Cassian cannot keep himself from marveling at the incredulous nature of his life. A day ago, he lived underground where the sun was a distant memory, even more distant than usual, and how he's with Jezabel and his new pet, the hobbled horse. 

"She'll need to see a veterinarian," Jezabel says to himself. "She has problems picking up her left hoof."

"That's all very grand, Doctor, but it's almost dark," Cassian replies, a little more gruffly than intended, given the hunger chewing at him. What he wouldn't give for a fresh roll and maybe some hot shepherd's pie! Maybe he could persuade Jezabel to use the powers of the chequebook in that lovely shop they just passed, the one with the loaves displayed in the curtained window. 

Jezabel pauses thoughtfully. "So it is." He turns to Cassian. "Isn't there a traveler's hotel along this road? We should be approaching it."

And Cassian almost laughs at how easily they've fallen into their old roles. 

The hotel in question is a respectable establishment, nothing half as fancy as what Lord Gladstone might have stayed at, but there's a stable and Cassian will be glad to see a bed again. It's frightening just how lovely a bed can be when one has slept on the floor for so long. With the clerk, Jezabel plays the naive, starstruck medical student, seeing London for the first time with his college friend. Something indescribable rises in Cassian at being called his friend, even though it's not true, because the only friends Jezabel has are animals. 

But, for once, it's fun to pretend, and Cassian jokes along with Jezabel, easy and free. Jezabel bashfully plays off their wounds as a drunken fall from the horse, and the clerk gives them the names of several doctors in the area, among them not fewer than three aliases Jezabel used in the past year.  

"Dr. Sweeney's quite the looker," she confides in them. "My friend Patricia says he resembles an angel."

"He can't be all that," Jezabel plays along. "Surely not?

Cassian has the urge to step on Jezabel's foot before he starts several more rumors about his own skill. Fortunately, the clerk seems to remember her job and checks them into a room on the upper floor. The room is modest: a single bed, a nightstand, a faded watercolor of peonies in a vase, a basin for washing, and down the hall is the shared bathroom. Draped across the bed is a cheerful, albeit worn yellow quilt, and piled on the wicker chair is a haphazard stack of blankets.   

A cat noses past the maid when she brings up their supper: hot rolls with butter, some slices of cheese and cured meat, boiled eggs with salt, pickles, an apple each, and a large pot of tea. "Your mare is a lovely girl," the maid says as she sets down the tray, and Cassian doubts she's even looked into the stables. "I'm a county girl myself. My father raises sheep out west."

Jezabel entertains her flattery for a little, even though the weariness shows in the tightness around his eyes, while Cassian unapologetically starts on the first decent food he's had in months. He leaves the cheese for Jezabel and takes some of the smoked ham on a generously buttered roll. The way the butter melts into the roll, lending the whiteness of the bread a rich golden hue, is heaven to him. He's gone through three rolls before he's cognizant of himself. 

"I'll bring you up some more," the maid says, and embarrassment burns at him. Why can't he control himself?  And if he can't control that, what other parts of himself can he not control? He's different now, stronger, in an adult body now. He could simply have his way if he wanted to. 

 _ **God, why is he thinking about that?** Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it_, he silently wills himself. _God, anything but that._ Because if he can think it, then it surely must be true. He closes his eyes, but he can't stop thinking of how easy it would be. Disgust fills him. Why can't he stop thinking about it? Should he go sleep in the stables? God, he'd sleep on the roof if it meant the kid would be safe from him. 

Appetite gone, he keeps watching himself for the slightest sign of the monster inside him, but Jezabel pays him not mind, having his supper quietly and watching the fireplace slowly stir into its full strength. 

"Have some more," Jezabel says at last. 

Cassian's mouth is dry from fear, but he manages a noncommittal wave of his hand. Jezabel shrugs in return and sets aside the two trays, before he begins to unbutton his waistcoat. The fear rises again in Cassian, and it is a terrible torture to sit there, averting his eyes as his mind fills with hideous suggestions. Water splashes into the basin, followed by the washrag, and it's only the sharp intakes of breath that makes Cassian glance at him, worried.

Jezabel's stripped down to his waist, his shirt sticking to his back in places, and although he's trying to hide it from Cassian as best he can, he's cleaning out the wound in his shoulder, the one he's kept hidden all day. He blanches as he presses the rag over the raw and broken skin. 

Concern overrides the rampant thoughts in his head. Oh God, the kid shouldn't be doing that.

"Let me," Cassian says, offering his hand and praying this is not confirmation of his nature. 

 Jezabel hesitates.  

 "You're not alone anymore," Cassian continues, suppressing his fears. "You don't have to do that anymore."  He touches the still-made bed. "If you'll sit down, I can clean that for you. Please."

Jezabel searches his face, trying to find any ulterior motive, and coming to some decision, complies and hands the cloth to Cassian. Cassian's disturbed at how easily he obeys, like a doll. He'd do anything Cassian asked him— _no, no, he doesn't want those thoughts_. 

Pinkish wisps float in the water as Cassian wrings the cloth over the basin.

He pats at the wound gently, combing over it in soft swipes. As he does, Jezabel stares blankly at the wall the entire time, and Cassian wishes he would say anything. Darkened, oxidized blood shows through the back of Jezabel's shirt, and guilt and revulsion weigh down at Cassian's heart. There's more, still more.

"Can I," Cassian starts, unsure how to broach the subject of taking Jezabel's shirt off. 

Jezabel shrugs, outwardly indifferent, but Cassian notes a flicker of fear.

"I won't hurt you," Cassian says, against the tremors of his own fears. "I'd die first."

"You would, wouldn't you?" 

Cassian doesn't know if he should find this cryptic answer reassuring, but he continues his task: Jezabel's skin is far warmer than he had thought it would be, and the shirt peels away easily, despite Jezabel's winces of pain as it rips across his back. Cassian murmurs an apology, as he surveys what can only be the marks from the Cardmaster's whip across his back. Angry new cuts cross over old ones in a hideous cacophony. 

Dropping the shirt into the basin to soak out the stains, Cassian begins to clean the cuts, moving in slow circles over the broken and irritated skin. "Do you have any gauze left?" Cassian asks, finally breaking the silence.

Jezabel nods, and after the gauze is retrieved, Cassian laces the soft, thin white across his back, as if that will be enough to put him back together again. 

As if any of this will. 

“What about yours?” Jezabel asks, when Cassian forces himself to pull away from Jezabel’s too-warm skin. 

“Mine?” Cassian frowns. 

“The ones around your rib-cage. I saw them at the hospital.” 

A boyish shyness comes over Cassian at the thought of Jezabel watching the nurses tend to him—and even more so, undressing in front of Jezabel, even if it was only to the waist. 

“They ought to be looked at,” Jezabel continues, in that carefully indifferent way of his. 

Fighting his embarrassment, Cassian shucks his clothing off, hoping Jezabel can’t see his reddening face. ( _What does he care? It’s not even his body. And it’s not as if Jezabel isn’t already intimately acquainted with Gladstone’s body..._ ) They swap places, Cassian taking the chair now, his heart impossibly loud. But the moment he lets Jezabel tend to his body, lifting his arms so that Jezabel can  clean the mottled mass of red and purple, the warmth of Jezabel's fingers drives away his shyness. Cassian could almost forget how violent Jezabel could be as those fingers delicately press and work their way across his body, leaving a trail of something unnameable that quickens Cassian's heart. 

"Most of it's internal," Jezabel says, in an expert tone. "But they should heal cleanly."

Cassian's not sure if this is Jezabel's strange way of comforting him, but he offers a noncommittal "hm" in reply. He wants to ask how it must feel to touch the body of the man he detested, if it feels different now, if it could ever feel different. He wants to know if Jezabel remembers things about this body that Cassian cannot, if there are marks that belong to Gladstone, if Jezabel can tell just how uncomfortable he feels in his stolen skin, if it's normal to feel so disconnected from this flesh that he panics at the sight of mirrors, praying to a God he does not believe in to give him back his own body, fearing that he was wrong to make a deal with Delilah, with the devil. 

But he says none of them, afraid of what he might say instead, what might fall out in its place.

Only the stretching and unwrapping of the gauze marks their presence. Cassian can hardly dare to breathe under Jezabel's touch. It's only when he realizes that the gauze is fully applied, yet Jezabel's hands still linger on his side, hesitating, that a soft flush returns to him, hopefully unseen in the dim gaslight. To distract himself, Cassian retrieves Jezabel's shirt and rubs out the last of the strains before wringing it and setting it to dry near the fireplace. It should be ready by the morning. Then he does the same with his own shirt. It will suffice until they can get to a home, where the washing can be done. 

When he raises his eyes from his task, he meets Jezabel's gaze, and there's something in Jezabel's eyes that gives him pause: it's an appreciative gaze, as if there's something aesthetically pleasing about Cassian's body. It's an odd sensation to be looked at so. 

"You should get some sleep," Cassian says, anything to get his mind off the low desire in his body; its sweetness is quickly suffocated by his fears. He doesn't want to hurt the kid, doesn't want any of those horrid images in his head to become reality. "You take the bed."

Jezabel gives him an odd look. "You'll be cold."

"It's fine," Cassian says stiffly. 

Jezabel watches him, his amethyst eyes unreadable. Then, he abruptly pulls back the covers on one side and crawls under the covers, still half-dressed. "Do as you want," he says, and it's hard for Cassian not to hear a bit of hurt in it. 

Cassian stays there on the chair, immobilized by his own thoughts and hating himself for not being to figure out what the right action is. Should he sleep in front of the fireplace and continue the distance, or... Cassian cannot decide. He's afraid that if he sleeps next to him, that the horrors in his mind will happen, and he can't let that happen.

Even if he is cold.

Well, he's used to it by now. 

* * *

He's woken up by screaming.

For a moment, Cassian's terrified that Delilah's found them, but then he rushes to Jezabel's side, shaking him awake as gently as he can. Jezabel surveys him, wide-eyed and gasping, his hair damp and his skin flushed. "I'm here, Doctor," Cassian says, afraid to let go of him. "I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Jezabel keeps staring at him, his chest heaving, and Cassian climbs into bed beside him, carefully staying above the covers. He doesn't know what to do, he's hoping he caught Jezabel's nightmare in time, hopes that no one will investigate. He cradles the kid as best he can, resting a hand on Jezabel's hair as he rubs his back awkwardly. "I'm here," he repeats, like a talisman. "I'll-I'll protect you."

Jezabel says something that is muffled. Cassian strokes his hair, putting aside his fears for the kid. When Jezabel's breathing softens, Cassian slows his movements. "Do you think you can sleep?" he asks, and Jezabel shakes his head. The moonlight that falls through the small parting where the curtains meet drapes itself along Jezabel's bare skin, and Cassian's reminded of just how beautiful the man is. Though it pains Cassian, he leaves Jezabel temporarily and moistens the rag again. Then he begins to wipe the sweat away from Jezabel's brow and the shining tear marks from his cheeks.

"I'm here," Cassian says again, tenderly, hoping it will get through to him. Cassian watches him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, before turning to return to his makeshift pallet by the fireplace.   

"No," Jezabel whispers to the wall, refusing to let go of Cassian's hand. "No, stay." 

Cassian hesitates, the thoughts boiling in him. "Kid, you don't want this—"

"I don't want to be cold," Jezabel replies in a hoarse voice. "Father—Father always said—" He chokes and curls up on himself. 

Though confused, Cassian softens, placing the rag back near the basin and plucking up a blanket lit orange by the fire's embers. "Here," he says, fumbling onto the bed. Jezabel doesn't turn to look at him; instead, he just closes his eyes. Cassian sets the quilt over to Jezabel's side, tucking it around the kid, before wrapping the second blanket around him. A soft intake of confusion comes from Jezabel, but Cassian cannot understand it. He said he didn't want to be cold; perhaps he changed his mind?

Taking another blanket for himself, he nearly sighs as he sinks into the bed, a welcome relief for his ribs from the floor. He offers his hand across the divide, his heart loud, and to his surprise, he feels the slightest of pressure as Jezabel touches it in return. 

The morning finds them warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if the Victorians had printed chequebooks. I can find reference to printed forms for cheques, but I'm not sure if they would have been bound as a book. I, however, definitely remember the Earl of Gratham having a chequebook on Downton Abbey, so that's what I'm basing my historical research on. XD


	5. Chapter 5

Cassian awakens to the curve of Jezabel's back, the quilt draping off him and the gray blanket kicked to the foot of the bed. In his sleep, Jezabel sighs and nestles further into the bed, and Cassian would give anything for this movement to simply continue forever, unfixed to any point in time, simply unending. Jezabel shifts over to Cassian, turning to face him. Jezabel sleepily regards him, unguarded, and Cassian cannot keep himself from cupping the curve of his face. 

Cassian's heart deafens him as he leans in closer, their limbs entangled in the languid morning warmth. Jezabel brushes away some of Cassian's hair from his face, peering into it, and with a bit of embarrassment, Cassian remembers that he probably can't see very well up close without his glasses. (Probably from all that late-night reading by gaslight.)

"Do you want me to get your—" Cassian asks, already preparing to get up.

Jezabel shakes his head. "Don't."

The tension escapes from Cassian's body under Jezabel's idle fingers, stroking back his hair. 

"It grew back faster than I thought," Jezabel says. 

Cassian's not particularly sure how to respond to that so he stays silent, allowing himself a soft caress of Jezabel's shoulder, dipping to run his fingers along his clavicle. As long as it's not organ talk, he'll settle for off-the-wall comments about his new body. Jezabel starts to slowly explore his chest, and Cassian starts to wonder if he's about to fulfill his secret desires.

He wets his lips, acutely aware of his own inexperience. "Are you sure—do you want—"

And then the knock at their door announces the unwelcome intrusion of the morning. 

Cassian takes their breakfast tray as quietly as possible, but the moment is over. Jezabel stares at the tidy but dull ceiling, distant again, rolling his shoulders back and stretching away the vestiges of sleep. Cassian tries not to stare at the way the muscles in his back tense and loosen, and he starts to understand why some people call the body a work of art. 

Trying to forget the stirrings in his heart, he passes Jezabel a milky, oversugared cup of tea.  

"So, Doctor," Cassian begins, wondering if he should keep up this pretense of formality given that he's passed the night shirtless with him, but at this point, formality is probably the only thing keeping the kid relatively grounded. "What's your plan? Surely you don't mean to keep writing cheques until Delilah catches  _us_?"

There it is, again— _us_. 

Jezabel shrugs bleary-eyed over the cup. 

 _Oh Christ, that was his plan._ Good to know that his ability to plan hasn't improved itself either. 

 Jezabel takes a deep breath. "There is a safehouse near here. We could reach it by noon; I could have the property signed over to me—"

Cassian frowns, taking his own tea, his fingers cramping around the delicate china handle. "Isn't that the Delilah safehouse? The mansion Justice made the Lady whatsit sign over..." Cassian pauses. "What if Delilah finds us there? Isn't that where they'll look first?" _Isn't that the first place they'd hide? God, kid, don't let a little nostalgia blind you._

"There isn't a Delilah left to find," Jezabel replies, mostly to his tea cup. 

Cassian means to ask Jezabel about the mysterious cheques, but from the kid's distant reluctance to discuss Delilah, Cassian decides against it. That can wait, and if anything, there's a perfectly reasonable reason. There has to be. The Cardmaster is dead, and they are free.  _God, the kid's a mess._ _But he's taking his father's death pretty well, all things_ _considered_.  _Hasn't tried to jump out the window or anything._ Cassian places a hand on his shoulder, rubbing the warmed skin in small circles. "Come on," he whispers. "Let's get dressed, ok? And then we can sort out a plan, take the horse to a vet—"

 Jezabel hesitates, still not looking at him. "You're so confident that this will end well."

Cassian watches him. "You're free," he says at last. "You're finally free. And I'm here. I'll watch over you."

But Jezabel only gives him a strained, thin-lipped smile, and they dress in silence.  

* * *

 Jezabel is correct in his predictions: the sun has barely reached the apex of its arch when the rusted iron gates of Lady Hawthorne's former mansion come into view. Peeling white paint ranges across the two-story building; dark pink roses shudder between the iron bars of the fence, and peeking from the blank windows are the torn and faded lace curtains Cassian only half remembers. It's like Briar Rose's castle, transfigured into something aloof and departed from the rest of time. Holding the reins of the horse, Cassian feels quite strangely like a peasant passer-by from a thousand years ago, stumbling across something forbidden. 

(He doesn't let his mind wander to the more obvious metaphor; he's never been anyone's savior, and he's not about to start now.)

The horse gives a low whinny of fear at the gates, but after a careful glance to check on her well being, Jezabel pauses at the gates, turning the key over in his hands, weighing something, and Cassian tries to drive the worry from his mind. But there are too many pieces that don't fit—or rather fit all too well into the same hideous pattern.

"He's there, isn't he?" Cassian says wearily. "The Cardmaster."

Shock comes over Jezabel, and then he laughs, sharp and bitter. "I can't hide anything from you, can I?" 

"Who was it that found you? The policeman?"

Jezabel's wry, forced smile answers him, and a sick pit forms in Cassian's stomach. Of course. "He said Father was badly injured," Jezabel says finally. "That Father needed my help again."

 "When I caught up with you," Cassian replies slowly, trying to sort out the pieces, "you weren't on the way to see him." It wasn't the right way to the mansion, but rather to the Thames. 

"I was on the way to fill my pockets with stones," Jezabel says flatly. "Better that than—" He shakes his head, his hands curling around the iron bars of the fence, the rust smearing the inside of his hands. "I knew that once I saw Father again, I would never be able to refuse him. He could beat me to death, and I would gladly get on my knees for it." Jezabel pauses, swallowing something back. "I've done this before. Six years ago, when Cain tried to kill him and he leapt out of the window into the sea. I was barely out of medical school, and I had to keep my own father from the brink of death. It wasn't the poison that almost did him in, it was the fall. He was there in one of the nearby hideouts, weak as a child, bedraggled and mangled, reeking of the sea." Jezabel slides the key into the lock, turning it with more force than necessary. "He needed me. For the first time, _he needed me_. It was by _my_ hand that he survived. And if I lost him, who would I be?" 

"You don't have to do this." Cassian places his hand on Jezabel's, slowly interlocking their fingers. "You can escape whenever you want to." _Kid, don't. We were so close to getting away._  A long pause ensues, before Jezabel pulls away, distant again.

"Will you take care of her for me?" A note of melancholy enters his voice, and Cassian can easily guess why. "You know what Father's like." He pets the horse's neck, patting her muzzle. "Find her a nice farm to live out the rest of her days. She's been worked too hard," he says, and Cassian thinks he sees the beginnings of tears in his eyes, but then Jezabel redirects his attention and it disappears under that distance between him and Cassian.

Jezabel considers something and unceremoniously shoves the chequebook and the pen into Cassian's free hand, never stopping to ask if Cassian could even read. "There's close to three thousand pounds in there. Father won't notice if some goes missing. Go anywhere: America, Australia, India." He pauses. "Maybe not India. There's a rather persistent rumor that Cassandra escaped to India as a fortune hunter. " Jezabel gives him a cruel, knowing smile. "After all, _aristocrats just don't disappear_."  

 _Christ, kid, you have to stop spreading rumors like that. Someone's going to trace this all back to you._ But sadness steals into his heart: more than anything, this is a farewell. 

"It is in my nature," Jezabel says simply to the muted despair on Cassian's face, and in another man, Cassian might have considered it an apology, but not here. Here it is merely a statement, an admission of guilt. "He made me this way."

Cassian nods, stuck speechless by the sheer, dragging weight of it all. "Of course, Doctor." His hands are numb; he can barely feel the worn leather of the reins in his hand, as Jezabel opens the gate, just enough to slip past. Then, he closes it in front of Cassian, avoiding his gaze. He walks through the overgrown thicket of brambles and roses, already a ghost. The door opens easily, and Cassian cannot keep himself from blurting out, "He's going to kill you."

His hand on the dirty door latch, without glancing back, Jezabel closes his eyes. "I know," he says.

Jezabel moves to close the door between them, pained, and he closes his eyes and drops to the floor. 

"I can't," he says. "I can't do it."

And behind him, in the darkness of the house, a moth blinks in the pallid daylight and alights across the bloodied, torn figure of the Cardmaster.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is where the warning for graphic violence comes in. It is graphic violence towards a person and towards an animal, because Alexis is an evil swamp creature. Please be very careful. Admittedly, the violence towards an animal is on par with Black Beauty, so if that helps.

Instinctively Cassian rushes towards him, throwing open the gate, but it's too late. Even as he reaches him, forgetting the house in the feverish blank that claims his mind, the Cardmaster takes stock of the situation. 

"What can't you do, Jezabel?" the Cardmaster calls, the rot-gnawed staircase behind him, the cold exhaling past him. Jezabel turns towards his voice, wide-eyed, and a smile stretches across his face. "What are you going on about, child? Come here." He steps into the light, the cold British daylight, and places a hand on Jezabel's shoulder; the kid stares upwards, dumbstruck with love and terror.

And just like that, Cassian's heart breaks in a way he didn't think it could, because he kept thinking, kept hoping that each break would be the worst. 

The Cardmaster strolls past them into the overgrown yard, and takes the reins before Cassain can figure out what he's planning. "What an... interesting beast you've acquired," he says with a smirk. 

"Let go of her," the kid pleads, and Cassian knows what will happen next. 

"Jezabel, child, I need to teach you a lesson about running away," the Cardmaster says, tying the reins in a steadfast knot to the gate. The horse picks up a hoof nervously. "This is your fault. It is because of you that others suffer." Shaking the stray hairs out of his eyes, the Cardmaster produces a coiled whip, black and shiny, from the insides of his cape. "You never should have left. You had no right to leave." He gestures to the dirt patch in front of him with the handle of the whip. "Kneel." 

Breaking free of Cassian's reassuring grasp, Jezabel staggers to the place and kneels in front of the Cardmaster, putting his hands on the dirt and facing the ground.

"How sorry are you, child?" the Cardmaster asks, slapping the still curled whip into the palm of his hand. "Can you comprehend the magnitude of your sins?"

Jezabel nods. "I'm sorry, Father," he manages. 

"Utterly unconvincing," the Cardmaster says and raises his whip. 

As Cassian throws himself over the kid, the whip falls not on his shoulders, but on the flank of the horse. She screams and bucks, bright red spilling forth from the scarred, dull black coat. To his horror, he realizes that there are scars all along her shoulders from a lifetime of misery. She pulls back from the fence, dragging her hooves in the grass and futilely twisting in the grasp of the reins.

This is somehow far worse than he had imagined. The kid might go obediently to punishment, but he'd cave the moment an animal was hurt. 

"I'm sorry!" the kid screams past Cassian, gripping Cassian's back, terror in his voice. "I'm sorry! It's my fault, not hers! I'll be good! I'll do whatever you want."

The Cardmaster gives him a disdainful look. "You're so steeped in sin. that you can't even see that this is for your own good. I raise the rod for your own improvement!"

He steps back, raising the whip, and Jezabel tears free of Cassian's grip. He tries to wrest the whip from the Cardmaster, fumbling for the leather held tightly, but the Cardmaster only brings the whip on Jezabel instead. The crack sickens Cassian, as leather meets the flesh of Jezabel's arm, raised instinctively in self-defense. The Cardmaster manages another seamless crack of the whip, this time landing across his ribs. 

"Good children accept with their punishment," the Cardmaster says curtly and raises the whip for another lash. 

At the second strike, the horse screams and rears up, all frothy, wide-eyed fear and rage, baring its teeth. The gate rattles as she tries to free herself, to put any distance between herself and the pain.

"I'm sorry," Jezabel cries, curled on the ground, a hand pressed to his ribs. "I'll never leave again! I'll be good! I'll do whatever you want!"

"Not good enough, child," the Cardmaster replies, a little winded now. He prepares himself for another lash, but the reins, the worn stretched leather, tear from their place at the gate, unwinding, unraveling, and the Cardmaster blinks back his shock as the animal rounds on him, breathing hard and fast. 

"Get back!" he yells, brandishing his whip like a ringmaster, though his damp hair falling into his eyes ruins the illusion. To scare her, he cracks the whip in front of her face, and the sound sends her into a fury, kicking and tearing. An iron horse-shoe tears free as she screams and pummels him.

Cassian shields Jezabel with his own body, hoping the creature won't turn on them  next. His hands find the torn cloth and the wetness seeping through Jezabel's arm. "Oh God, kid," he whispers. "It's okay." He smooths down Jezabel's hair to alleviate his own blinding fears as the horse stamps around the lifeless body of the Cardmaster. The kid clings to him and sobs into his coat, shaking and whispering something Cassian can not make out.

The noise dies down, the ground dies down, and the horse, panting, rushes off to the edge of the property, kicking up the clumps of rotten rose petals. 

Cassian gives Jezabel's back a reassuring pat, before investigating the corpse. Its state sickens him, and he roughly tosses the torn black velvet cape over it, anything to conceal the mess from the kid. Somehow he doesn't think the Cardmaster will be resurrected any time soon. Staggering to his feet, the kid follows him, so pale that Cassian holds onto him to keep him from collapsing. In the light, there are tear trails all over his flushed, blotchy face. 

"It's okay," Cassian repeats, like a mantra. He doesn't believe it, but one of them has to. 

He helps him inside, up the staircase to the bath. There, he perches the kid on a stool as he strips him of the ruined shirt and waistcoat before beginning to clean the wounds. Jezabel says nothing throughout all of this, staring blankly at the opposite wall. 

Cassian leaves him briefly to investigate the nearby closets for anything relatively suitable, and finding a slightly out-of-fashion shirt and waistcoat roughly about the kid's size, he returns. Admittedly, the shirt is a bit moth-eaten on the sides, and the waistcoat is a bit too big, probably meant for the Cardmaster in a desparate attempt to have him dress less flamboyantly, but it will have to do.

Jezabel's risen to his feet now, wiping his face with the damp rag used to clean his wounds. At Cassian's footsteps, he turns towards him, weak and pale. He fumbles for Cassian's hand.

"Let's go," he says numbly.

* * *

 It takes a while for Jezabel to coax the horse from her hiding place between the two elm trees, but he's unwilling to leave without her. Walking up the road, they find another hotel, and Jezabel goes through all the motions of joviality, but his quips and smiles don't reach his eyes. He signs another cheque for their stay, and hands the horse over to the groom. It's not until they're safely away in their room for the night that Cassian broaches the subject when Jezabel gathers up the towels for a bath.

"Do you need help?" he asks, lightly touching Jezabel's arm. When Jezabel surveys him, listless and pale, he continues. "You've had a bad turn, and..." _I'd prefer if you didn't drown yourself in the bath._

Jezabel nods.  

Cassian helps him down the hall, clutching him around the waist. Somehow, their feigned claims of a horse fall seems more realistic now. With the door locked behind them, Cassian prepares the bath: nothing fancy, just some hot water and soap. The groans of the pipes and fall of the water steal away Cassian's thoughts as he adjusts the water temperature. Then he turns to Jezabel. 

"Do you want me to help you?" he says again, gesturing to his clothes. 

The fog starts to clings to the shaving mirror on the washstand. Jezabel nods, and Cassian begins to remove his clothing again. It's not quite the image of a valet and his master, but Cassian's afraid of it becoming more. Well, as long as _he_ keeps his clothes on, no one could accuse him of having unjust motives.Jezabel doesn't move from the spot, undressed, numbly staring back at Cassian, and Cassian fears that this has taken on an entirely different meaning now.

He guides Jezabel into the water, trying to avert his eyes from the more indecent parts, and returns his attention when Jezabel is fully in the water. Jezabel sharply draws in his breath when the water laps at his wounds, but overall, the water seems to have some restorative affect on him; thank God, because Cassian's not entirely sure he could support the both of them if Jezabel fell into a full-fledged melancholic episode. Still, he seems exhausted, and Cassian can hardly blame him. 

Cassian kneels next to the bath tub and draws some of the hot water into the rag, before stroking it across Jezabel's arm, gingerly dabbing at the wounds. First is the new, curved lash along his ribs: Jezabel tries to hide it, but the hot water stings the open cuts and Cassian tries to work as delicately as possible. Cassian tries to gather Jezabel's hair to one side; when it falls back, too short now to stay, he catches an amused, half-smile from Jezabel. Jezabel brushes it away to one side, bending his neck slightly so that it stays to one side, nestled away from Cassian's tending, and Cassian lightly brushes the stray hairs away from the back of Jezabel's neck

 Jezabel watches him, vaguely interested, but Cassian carries on, working his way upwards to tend to his shoulder wound. He's quite pleased to see that it has begun to heal, and only lightly passes over it. Cassian hands him some of the castille soap for his hair, and Jezabel sets to washing it. They work in silence, Cassian fearing what he might say and Jezabel lost in his head. When the water runs opaque from the soap and Jezabel's skin has taken on the pleasant flush of hot water, Cassian helps him out, wrapping him in a towel and draining the water. 

 "What about you?" Jezabel asks. 

Regret comes over Cassian at having already drained the bathwater, but he starts filling the bath again. "Do you need help back to the room?"

Jezabel gives him a long, steady look.  "Your wounds need tending to, as well."

 And it repeats, but this time, Cassian enjoys the soft drag of the washcloth  against his skin, scrubbing at the dirt and old skin in expert circles. Where Cassian gingerly rubbed, Jezabel firmly, yet gently cleans with all the expertise of one accustomed to the human body. They say nothing, the splashes of water breaking the silence in turns, until Cassian is washed and tended. 

Jezabel watches him again and drops the washcloth into the tub. It floats along, unfurling in the water, and Jezabel raises the back of Cassian's hand to his lips. A small, soft kiss, entirely unlike what Cassian had imagined. No driving, carnal hunger, nor passion, just a gesture of affection. Cassian, to his embarrassment, feels his body respond, as the blood rushes down. 

It deepens when he realizes that Jezabel has noticed as well. 

Trying to conceal the raging blush, Cassian rushes out of the tub, suddenly quite done with being vulnerable. He snatches up a towel and begins drying off. He's tried not to think of this body and all that it has given him, but now it's all he can think of. He knows that Jezabel knows what he must think of him, and he doesn't know what to do now. Christ, Jezabel's got enough strange ideas about sex and the last thing Cassian wants is for him to become convinced that he only want him for his body. 

_Christ!--_

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be only six chapters long, and then I decided that seven was more aesthetically pleasing. I blame the cold. Enjoy!

 Cassian can hardly sleep that night, lying beside Jezabel and wondering what is left to them now. Tossing, he fidgets with his blanket, adjusting it hopelessly as the moon peeks through the bleached linen curtains. It's only after the ninth time he turns over (or is it the twentieth?) that he realizes that Jezabel is still awake too. 

"You ought to sleep," he says, not unkindly. _After today, you'll need it._

Jezabel sighs, resigned and heartbroken, still not turning to face him. "He's gone." He sounds numb, lying there on his side, facing the wall and the shadows that glide across it. Quite a few responses come to Cassian: _the bastard deserved it_ , _he was going to kill you,_ _I'm only sorry it wasn't me_.  But he says nothing, struck by the inadequacy of it all. 

"Who am I now?" Jezabel whispers, runs the tips of his fingers against the wool of the blanket, distracting himself from the gravity of it all.  It's less a question and more a statement, and Cassian wishes he could take all these questions from him and bind them up in a neat answer. There isn't one, though.

"Whomever you want to be," Cassian says softly, and with his own fingers, he stills the rising canter of Jezabel's. "But I think that's for the morning."

"Well then, I don't want the morning." Jezabel glances up, daring him to say otherwise, to feign some optimism.

"It'll come. It always does."

Jezabel gives him a wry, pained smile that only deepens the lines around his eyes. In the semi-darkness, they seem deep and frightening. "You'd say that." 

Cassian sighs sadly and draws him closer. His heart quickens again under all the impossible warmth. "You could do anything you want."

"Can I?" A harsh, short laugh. "Nothing will be better. He's dead."

"Probably," Cassian concedes, putting a hand on Jezabel's blanketed shoulder. "But sleep does wonders." 

 Jezabel searches his face. "God, you're insufferable sometimes." But under his words, there's a note of tenderness, and he relaxes under the weight of Cassian's arm. 

And Cassian takes it, giving Jezabel's shoulder a light squeeze, before closing his eyes again. He exhales, long and exhausted, and rests his head against the pillow, relishing the smoothness of clean linen. It's been such a long time, he's almost forgotten. The morning will come, he's sure of it, and then they'll handle the rest of it. He doesn't yet know what form that might take, but he knows they will. Perhaps they'll run a little cottage on the edge of town, freshly painted white with the curling, bright threads of bougainvillea covering the windows. A little place ostensibly for fixing people, but secretly for animals. Cassian will find work, simple, hard work, and together, they'll see what's beyond London and all its lost secrets. 

Jezabel shifts under Cassian's arm, rubbing at his now blotchy face. He takes Cassian's hand in his own, clinging to it, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. "You're warm," he says abruptly, and Cassian manages a noncommittal noise, unsure of what sparked this bizarre comment. As long as it's not about his organs, he supposes. 

Jezabel nestles closer to Cassian, still not relinquishing his hand. He runs his thumb along the inside of Cassian's hand, earning him a soft sigh. "Back there," he begins softly, "back there at Delilah, when the building collapsed, I thought you were dead." Cassian pauses, but Jezabel continues. "It was so dark I couldn't see you; there was so much dust circulating." He swallows. "I couldn't let you die again, if there was only the smallest possibility you could be alive."

Cassian tries to not think about how terrifying it must have been to be trapped under rubble and painfully aware that death would come not as blunt trauma but rather suffocation. 

"You were lucky," Jezabel continues. "We were close enough to the surface that I could push away some of the rubble. Enough to draw attention." He pauses. "But I chose you over Father there."

"I know," Cassian says quietly. _That's why he was so angry._

Jezabel wets his lips. "You won't leave, will you?"

Cassian considers all the ways he could respond: how frail life really was; how so terribly tenuous; how even if he said no, he might die suddenly. But the kid needs to hear it, and then, later on, they'll figure it out, if then. "I'm here," he says and pulls him closer, letting him burrow into his  blanket, even. For tonight, he'll put up with the kid taking his blanket too. Well, he can always get another one.

Slowly they slip into sleep, and the morning comes, as it's wont to do.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was Syri's secret santa this year. I swear, it was not supposed to be this long nor complicated, but the stand-alone chapter turned into two, which turned into four, and... I could not stop with the angst. The ending gave me a lot of grief, because I wanted something that didn't feel like a deus ex machina (or Cassian ex machina), but was also relatively happy. I had quite a few to pick from, and I eventually scrapped the one where Augusta takes over Alexis's body a la the canon ending but without the victim-blaming (because not in my house, people), but then I went with the one where Alexis gets murdered by an animal in self-defense, because I think that's a bit fitting and I despise Alexis. And I'm a big fan of Alexis getting his comeuppance.
> 
> Also, very fancy Victorian/Edwardian houses had FIRE PLACES in their bathroom, and that's a trend we need to bring back. I was unable to work this into the story, but it must be known. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
